


Ironborne

by TheEvangelion



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: ABO, Alpha Lexa, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, F/F, Game of Thrones AU, Girl Penis Lexa, GoT, House Greyjoy, House Targaryen, Making Love, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Clarke, Protective Lexa, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-01-08 08:17:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12250542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEvangelion/pseuds/TheEvangelion
Summary: Lexa of House Greyjoy and Clarke of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, plentiful in her titles, spend a night together in the privacy of their quarters. Lexa makes sure it's one her pale queen will not forget for a thousand moons to come.





	1. Chapter I

She is an ocean of almost-lilac white, and god, by the blessed light of the seven, it stretches and stretches. It wraps. It moves like a wave. It curves around every inch of her dragon-forged ethereal body and Lexa can’t.

She doesn’t.

She is incapable.

She is Ironborne and forged of winter and crystallised with the long drips of what it means to survive in this world. She is a fortress, an impenetrable smog, a force of nature stirring itself into a torrent… and she is undeserving of this Queen that writhes beneath her like the birth of a new spring.

“It’s alright,” Clarke whispered softly and reached a hand around to touch her sinewed neck. “Is this not what you want?” She asked quite seriously with earnest eyes.

It offset Lexa, enough that the amalgamation of her surely smirk and slicing wit were not enough to hide the richness of her tender heart. Clarke twisted softly from where she laid over fine soft blankets brought from the furthest stretches of the Khalasar. Half on her belly, half stretching around until her soft breast was all Lexa could see and yearn for.

Lexa licked her lips and smiled softly, “It’s like staring into the Well of Knowledge.” She tried to make it sound eloquent, tried at least.

“What is?” Clarke laughed sweetly.

“Being around you… realising that I would send good honourable men to their death, that I would go with them, on the softest plea of your lips.” She shook her head at that and leaned back, her eyes fixing on the true Queen of Westeros. It made sense in her heart, of course it did, but saying it out loud made Lexa’s eyebrows furrow with confusion. That she, a Greyjoy, would choose to raise up this diaphanous creature… this last Dragonborne.

The candlelight flickered the room, seared soft shadows into the glowing orange walls that separated them from whom they must be in the world outside. Clarke rolled and settled on her back, her loose white hair cascading around the pillows. She was smiling that pleased and satisfied smile. It infuriated and aroused Lexa, simultaneously.

“Come,” Clarke gently slipped fingers around the muscles of each shoulder and pulled Lexa down on top of her. “I have so many soft pleas I want to give you Lady Lexa and none of them will cost you your life, yet.” She chuckled and kissed her with equal enthusiasm.

This girl, this white-witch queen, she will be the death of her. Lexa is certain of it every time they kiss. It’s these particular kisses that do it, the kind where Clarke's hands slip around the small of her spine, stroking and delicate. She is going to die for this woman one day, and it will be these nights she remembers when the bloody-spittle begins to run the corner of her lips.

She pushes her hips into the nook of Clarke's slender thighs, her weight resting on the ball of her shoulders while the creature beneath her begins to arch and whimper. Outside, the sound of suicidal insects humming around the blazing torch by the window stirs.

And Lexa sympathises.

Clarke slipped around beneath her and settled on her boneless knees, folded like a bird made out of scripture and divination. There’s these hungry long whimpers that hang in the air, desperate and stuck. It’s enough to make Lexa grin and slip over her back.

“What do you want, my queen?” It was tinged with a grin.

“Lexa,” Clarke jaw shudders on the noun, eager for it to be a verb, an adjective, a thing to paint her entire world and vocabulary with until she is fluent. “Lexa…” She shudders again.

Clarke pushed her hips backwards, grinding urgently, bumping and searching and moving with a rhythm that belonged to the divine. It was the physical expression of needing something more, needing something terse and rough and real and forceful. It was the need to be fucked with the kind of unforgiveness only something made of Iron could provide.

She is made to crash and burrow into the pillows, mouth open, silently crying out with the kind of buckling sensation that is indistinguishable between pain and pleasure, for now at least. Her tightest muscles are made to relent against the slow-moving force of Lexa’s hips, and all she can do is choke and quiver. She is a dragon spitting fumes, regal and magnificent and entirely slayed. Lexa groans pridefully.

By the time calloused hands slip beneath and around her breasts, she is a dragon resurrected. Clarke feels that tentative rush of energy pulse and jostle between the thrum of her heartbeat. Fingers rub and twist her nipples, stiffening the pink buds into bloom. She cries out, roaring and hissing with the carnal. Lexa softly bites her ear and then kisses it.

The thud of hips against her bottom turns from a teeth-clenching tearful affair into a hang-jawed mewling frequency. It embarrasses Clarke. The sound of her own wantful sobs and lustful cries. The burn in her nipples transcends through each thrust of Lexa’s hips, they are twisted and rubbed and pulled and tugged with each sheath inside of her rear. The joints of the bed are made to endure as their bodies collide and clash, the wall bearing the brunt of the headboard. 

Lexa dips her head and settles on Clarke's shoulder, “You will beg like a slut, you will grovel and beg and I will make you cum like a Queen.” She growled with hot wantful breath and slipped a hand over the barrel of Clarke's pale throat.

“Lexa!” She cries against the squeeze of her throat, gasping and close to deliverance. “Please… please…”

“What do you want?” Lexa kissed her temple and drove her hips harder.

“Please… touch me?” Clarke whimpered and tried to push a calloused hand from her breast down the galley of her body.

“You want me to circle and rub your clit?” Lexa burned her with the shameful crudeness of her words.

Clarke nodded and emboldened herself, her hips moving backwards harder and harder into the relentless fucking of her rear. It softened Lexa, slightly. It softened her enough to take pity and wind lazy circles between the slickness of her folds, glorious and soft as they are. Though that was all it took to make Clarke heave and shudder, the slaps of their skin meeting one another ringing around the stoney room.

“Good girl, that’s it.” Lexa praised her and tightened her circles. She focused and fastened them, pulled the small hood back and buckled her Queen with just a single fingertip burning into the rawness of her clitoris. She is so wet, and it’s so thin and sweet, clinging and lingering along her creases and thighs, and eventually Lexa too.

Clarke gasped and felt desire set fire to everything until nothing but the need for release was left. “Please! I’m so close, I am so close my love,”

“Give me everything you have.” Lexa growled the order and rubbed harder, thrusted deeper, loved her hatefully. It was the most proficient way she knew how — because even love had to be cast in silver if it was to endure this world.

Her orgasm is fast and relentless like the nature of war itself. It crashes her into pillows, it buckles her, makes a fool of her, it renders her weak and powerless against the insurmountable wrath of her own body. Lexa thrusts hard and deep, growls beautiful disgusting things about how tight and quivering the hole wrapped around her feels. It makes Clarke close her eyes and drown in the headiness of her orgasm, face buried into the pillow with the force of Lexa’s hand behind her neck.

By the time she surfaces their positions have moved, she is strewn over Lexa’s heaving chest like a thin sheet, her white hair cascading down the side of her scarred ribs. She swallows and tries to move, unsuccessfully.

“Stay.” Lexa made a soft noise and leaned to kiss her head. “Give me this?” She asks solemnly, desperate beneath the reserved.

Clarke smiled into her breast, craning to press a kiss against the bottom of her chin. “Anything you ask, my love.” She whispered and settled against her, a dragon conquered.

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	2. Chapter II

Winter came.  
  
It came in drips, in chills, a whisper that once moved across seas and lands for years as a distant threat now a permanent overhang of ice in the air that refused the world colour. The Great Grass Sea blistered and froze, the emerald and gold fields covered in a sparse dusting of snow that became a blanket and then a barren desert. From Meereen to Vaes Dothrak, her lands were made to feel the sting and rapture of this earth.

Then the dead refused to stay dead. Great monstrous creatures from the pages of myth and fairytale, skeletal and diamond-eyed, rattling with hollow promise of the same fate for all those who should dare to die too. Lexa, true to her word, set sail with a thousand good men, assuring even as she left that this world, their world, would be reclaimed once more.

Winter returned, and still, Lexa does not.

“While you wait, House Lannister plots. I know because that is what I would do my Queen!” Bellamy assures while pacing backwards and forwards across the stone; stiff and concerned only with her ensured survival, now and forevermore his duty in blood and honour. “Your dear Lexa—if I may be blunt—can no longer be a concern of the heart! You saw those creatures.” Bellamy hesitates, looking his regent up and down, satisfied by the small flinch and clench of her hands at such unnatural memory. “We must assume that she too fell-”

“No.” Clarke stops him, regal and restrained and somehow anything but, simultaneously. “You do not know her as I know her. Somewhere she is well, finding a way to return to us. I know it.”

“You know only what your heart allows you to believe my Queen!”

“As do you.” Clarke rose from her throne and stares for a moment, empathetic and aware of Bellamy’s truest feelings.

The Lord Lannister was as despised as he was admired, by his own family as well as the others. Though Clarke, last of House Targaryen, held nothing but admiration and respect for the true Kingslayer and perhaps that went some way to redeeming his sins. Despite his breeding, he was true of heart and kind of spirit—a Hand to be respected and feared for his uncensored counsel. And in turn, Lord Bellamy Lannister held nothing but love in his heart for the reluctant queen: an accidental regent-totalis of Essos, to whom all kneeled.

Bellamy lowered his head shamefully as Clarke approached, blinking and rubbing the back of his neck. He is entirely aware that Clarke knows his secret, and he is entirely aware that theirs is a love that will never bloom.

“I know,” Clarke exhaled and raised his stubbly chin. “I know how you feel and I am sorry. But I also know that you would die to protect me. I know of your untested heroics truer than any soldier who marches beneath my colours. I know that you trust my judgement, Lord Bellamy.” She cupped his cheek softly and offered an apologetic smile. “If I am to rule then there must still be a world remaining after winter has passed in need of a good queen. I can’t do any of it without Lady Lexa at my side, do you understand?”

Bellamy pushed a half smile and nodded, resolute and loyal. He patted Clarke’s hand and straightened himself in her presence, clasping his hands behind the small of his back as her hand returned to fall at her side. “Then we wait my Queen, as you wish.” He said quickly, setting down his wine cup. “I will speak to the keeper of whispers and buy word on Echo’s plotting. The winter makes for quiet winds but the whispers still carry for the right sum in gold.”

“I cannot imagine it’s easy standing on this side of the war.”

“It isn’t.” Bellamy said immediately. “But there is no easy side to stand on in war, there is only losses and the faint hope that ours are less severe than theirs. I take no pleasure in knowing Echo will fall one day, she is my sister and in some small way I have always loved her, but not as much as I…” Bellamy stopped and swallowed. “Well, my Queen, I serve you and no other regent.”

“Thank you Lord Bellamy.”

…

She washes ashore, spluttering and barely alive. The salt of the sea made for gagging against her already raw throat, the icy sand beneath her cheek scraped the skin red. She’s going to die of the cold, the thought occurs to her, and yet still Lexa rolled on her back and grinned to herself. She even went so far as to dare to laugh; an ocean of the dead and here she was awash beneath the constant watch of the Targaryen towers, finally.

Lexa closed her eyes and breathed, by the time they are open again a lone figure approaches from the distance, cloaked and hunched inside their furs. It makes for a strange sight, a familiar one, though strange nonetheless in these usually warm lands.

Winter had finally came for Essos too.

The figure didn’t become clear until Lexa’s eyes fluttered open to find Bellamy Lannister standing over her with a torn expression.

“Lord Bellamy,” Lexa rasped and swallowed against the film of ice clinging to her choking windpipe. “You’ll forgive me for not being thrilled to lay eyes on your face first.” She managed and blinked slowly.

Bellamy lowered himself and dug a knee in the crystallised shore, his dark eyes full of contempt and dangerous jealousy. He hesitated for a moment, looking off to the dragon towers that dotted the cliffs above them. He exhaled and turned back to the persistent creature beneath his gaze, thoughtful and not quite sure.

“Ah,” Lexa realised too late and pushed a slow knowing smile. “There’s a reason why you are my welcome party.”

“If there’s one thing being a Lannister has taught me Lady Lexa it’s that anything can be bought for the right price in gold. Winter makes for quiet winds but the whispers still carry.” He sighed and patted her shivering shoulder. “You were spotted boarding a refugee ship leaving Dorne. I assumed the journey through the Narrow Sea would take you at least a few days, though, I did not expect you to arrive in this… state.” His eyes appraised her with a strange pity.

“The Queen does not know I have returned?” Lexa asked and already knew the answer, the hope ebbing away like sand between the fingers.

“It would be cruel to give her hope. You have been inside the beating heart of the dead lands, it’s simply impossible that you have returned untouched by the plague. If I had known that you were to come back to us so close to death already, perhaps I would have let nature take it’s due course and allowed her the indulgence of a goodbye.”

“A traitor to the end. A true Lannister.” Lexa chuckled to herself and slumped backwards into the painful chill of the shore. “Just, tell me you will protect her?”

Bellamy’s expression softened into one of preemptive regret. He placed a hand on her sodden shoulder once again, his lips now thin and thoughtful. “I will protect her with my life Lady Lexa. That I swear to you-”

Bellamy’s words were cut short by a ear-splitting roar overhead. They looked up to see a long never-ending shadow cast upon the shore, the air becoming fire and auburn around them. A wing cut through the air like a knife through butter, a hissing mouth filled with long spines for teeth enrapturing the space between them.

Viserion.

Lexa managed a weak chuckle and collapsed backwards again into the salt of the shore; shivering, blue-lipped, white-skinned, and entirely reinvigorated. Her eyes move from the fire spitting dragon to the stumbling Lannister. Bellamy fell backwards, his feet pushing through the sand until he was clambering through the freezing lap of the sea, staring into the heat of the roaring dragon’s mouth.

The ocean is quiet and for some reason that stuck as ordinary in Lexa’s head; the noise and colour of Slaver’s Bay is subdued by the overhang of Winter—and without the heat and bustle, this place is no different than anywhere else the wind has carried her over the last year. But then Lexa sees her lilac queen dismount Viserion; the Mother of Dragons; Queen and Khaleesi and every title to be found in between. Clarke unfurls from the wings of her dragon like a lily in-bloom and her gentle violet eyes do not care for revenge or betrayal in this particular moment, they have only Lexa in their sights.

“Tell me you are alright,” Clarke falls beside her with soft hands slipping into the chill of Lexa’s neck. Her brow is pressed into Lexa’s, the white furs from her own spine removed and wrapped around her weary lost traveller. “I feared I lost you my love.” Clarke whispers it, terrified and grateful.

Lexa splutters and aches, gasping as she is rolled on to her side and coddled in the hides of her queen. “There were times it seemed so, I knew you would think me dead after it became impossible to send word.” She mumbles weakly against soft pink lips that kiss and warm her own. “But, I could hardly let the opportunity to prove a Targaryen wrong pass me by.” The Greyjoy pushed a weak smirk.

“You are the dearest thing to my heart.” The Queen mouths with hot tears.

The pound of horses and loyal men fill the emptiness of the air, and they are not allowed to be people, not even in these moments. Lexa knows that and so she makes her words important and quick, squeezing Clarke’s delicate hand in her own while the Queen wipes her sparse tears.

“You are the only thing in mine Clarke.”

 

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	3. Chapter III

Stay.

Lexa whispers it in the mornings, says it often and softly like gold spun tender every time there is a jostle or threat of movement. It is always followed by tight arms around her queen, and in her most strange worries that is what she fears the most — that if she keeps contracting too quickly, needing too much, squeezing too hard, her iron will splinter. 

Bedrest has already softened her into a raw sort of regret. It was the victory that did it, the final snuff of the warring dead while she languished with a sickness of the chest that seemed to draw to no end. Now, in her most private beliefs, Lexa wished for the undead to rise once more... because war is a smokestack that bleeds a certain kind of plague into the air, that breeds the kind of fear that makes a hero of those who battle through the stench of it and a coward of those who do not. And while the tales of her heroics spread like a wildfire through the kingdoms, the quiet whispers in her own mind concerning her absence from those last bloodied days of the battle festered into a rancid loathing for any and all talk of the war at all.

The queen fluttered her eyes open and stretched an arm.

“Stay,” Lexa doesn’t miss a beat.

“Alright,” Clarke hushes bleary eyed and slings a hip over, adjusting for a moment. “Have you given much thought to the proposal, Lady Lexa?” She yawns and nuzzles beneath a spot of collarbone where the iron has been worn away, where the terrain has been conquered and added to the many lands beneath Queen Clarke’s banner.

“No,” Lexa says, terse and honest.

“Well, do.” Clarke softly pats her shoulder with a rueful smile, “It was your want for the Salt Throne that brought you to these isles and now that the war is over we should make plans. It is your family’s birthright, and you the rightful heir…”

“The more forgiving weather here makes for better training ground for the men, many of them are too young to remember the harshness of the last Iron winter. The Salt Throne can wait, Clarke.”

“I want you to stay, above all things in this world, Lady Lexa, I want you to stay. But when you came here it was for the Iron Islands.”

“The Iron Islands are still dear to my heart, yes, but…” Lexa tapers off and rubs her cheek, sighing simultaneously. “Now isn’t the right time,” she continues with her excuses.

“Well, the winter makes for solid seas that better for battle should they be met with resistance? We suffered losses but I have the infantry to send with you—”

“We’re an island nation, a strong navy. We fare better at sea. There is no rush, we can wait until the worst of winter is over,” Lexa reassures again, her fingers becoming antsy.

“Why wait?” Clarke chuckles, and in her eyes is a particular kind of nervousness, the kind that feels like she is inevitably waiting for a blister to be burst on the skin. 

If it’s nervousness at the prospect of Lexa leaving, the Lady of Pyke does not recognise it, she is too consumed with the art of finding excuses.

“I am without heirs of my own to seat, Clarke, unlike my brothers.” Lexa cranes, burying her nose into the very center of the Targaryen white crown beneath her chin. “If I produce an heir for House Greyjoy before I seek the throne I will protect myself in case my brothers begin to hunger.”

“That wasn’t a problem for you when you came?” Clarke pushes and pushes, waiting for more.

“When I came the dead were still dead and that has to take precedence above all things, thrones included.”

“As they are once more Lady Lexa... no less thanks to your help?” Clarke blinks in confusion.

That iron jaw clenches hard enough to burst teeth. It grinds, then grinds some more, then finally comes to a rest. Lexa cannot chew on rancid whispers and so she ceases trying.

“My help?” She says it with a dismissive sneer and stares steely at Clarke, “My _help_ was lying in the royal bed as if you were my wet nurse while the war was won by that limp tit of a Lannister! The dead could rise again, I remind my queen, and _that_ quarrel will belong to me. It’s no time to be thinking of matters so...tiny! As to who will get to sit on a pile of salt tall enough to watch the earth become a grave!” Lexa heaves.

She says it, and still she does not say it all. There’s still the thin truth hiding behind her ribs that she just doesn’t want the throne anymore. That the thought of one day perhaps being a woefully disobedient consort is more appealing than being an obedient queen. That Clarke makes it look easy, effortless even, when it is the hardest job of all. That the thought of watching troubles from afar instead of feeling blood in the mist just does not sit right in her bones. She is iron, ruddy brown ore, the salt of the islands, but a queen?

She is not.

Clarke pauses and her eyebrows do the thing, that heavy quiet furrow they do when decisions are being made and regal thoughts considered. Her hand moves away tentatively from Lexa’s warm bicep, and instinctively Lexa wants to follow, wants to apologise and keep her queen right where she is.

She resists the urge.

“You are not made to heel, I think I understand that.” Clarke smiled ruefully.

“What?”

“Oh Lady Greyjoy, you could give the wolves of Winterfell a run.” Clarke chuckled beneath her breath at the thought, “Wild things like you do not fare well in the art of sitting still, heading council, _listening well,_ ” she says the last part carefully, her fingers tucking beneath Lexa’s chin to make sure there is no offence caused. “Kings and Queens are not chosen as leaders, Lexa, they rule and are governed simultaneously. Your men follow you because in you they see the best of themselves, all the bravest bits. I had my doubts for a while whether your heart still lay with the throne… but… I had to offer. I had to make sure your choices were your own.”

“Clarke,” Lexa simmers gently with a long grind of her jaw, bubbling, allowing a tiny little bit of truth and candor to drip over the edge, “I long for another war.” She turned to the queen in her bed, “I long to be...useful. To serve a purpose. To do what I am most good at in this world. I do not long for a throne, no less one that is a world away from yours.”

“Well now,” Clarke patted her hand and offered a small smile, “We executed Bellamy Lannister. Word has surely reached Octavia and the rest of House Lannister, and personal feelings for her brother must now be put aside. We live in a world made up by shows of strength, demonstrations of reach and power. The execution of a Lannister will not go unresponded.”

“You think she will make an attempt on your life?” Lexa grew protective quickly, her nose flaring at the thought. The next feeling that occurs is hope; a strange and repulsive hope that Clarke is correct in her assumptions. It disgusts her immediately, makes the whispers in her head all the more rancid, but protecting this queen would be a most useful purpose indeed.

“I think the day when I ask you to go to war once more in my name is coming, Lady Lexa. If you want to be the person that I ask?”

“I owe you a blood debt for my life, and blood _must_ have blood.” Lexa pushes out a calloused hand, reaching out across the blankets until smooth pale fingers sit in her tight grasp.

“You’ll raise the ire of your brothers. It was different when the dead walked, a Greyjoy fighting alongside Targaryen soldiers...” Clarke says quietly.

“Then a Targaryen you will make of me yet,” Lexa raises her brows playfully and finds the will to climb out of bed, “Or, I you a Greyjoy,” she tosses over her shoulder with a wry smirk.

In the time it takes to stretch her arms towards the rafters, to itch the scratch in that awkward spot along the spine, to eventually turn around and blink into the searing brightness of the morning light, Clarke is still taken aback.

“Marriage can be a very dangerous thing, Lady Lexa. Winterfell would see any union between us as me reaching towards the North…”

“Did you say I could give the wolves of Winterfell a run for their money, my queen, or did you not?” Lexa poses the question with a deep wry smirk as a shirt is wrangled over her head. She appears again, gold dusted green eyes peeking through her messy dark hair. “Besides,” she crawls forward back over the bed to her naked blushing queen, “I rather enjoy dangerous things. I’m very, very, good at them.” Lexa punctuates with kisses to the dip of her belly.

“Say it,” Clarke grows stern. She grabs Lexa by the jaw, grabs her and squeezes hard enough to leave crescent-shaped moons beside her chin. Slowly, Clarke guides her up until they are millimetres apart. “Tell me you love me. Tell me you want to marry me. Tell me every soft thing you cast in your staunchness and if only once make this the royal order you obey,” her eyes flit, bottom lip curled into her teeth.

“If I am a wild thing,” Lexa whispers into that same bottom lip, “then you are the moon that I will spend a lifetime following, my queen. If that does not tell you how much I love you, then no words will.”

 

_AN: this chapter was soft to set up the next chapter, which will involve knotting and impregnation because I am a pervert with an open word document waiting to go..._

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